


1862, AD - Later That Day

by FantasyPrincess



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apologies, Fraternizing, Gen, ineffable husbands, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 06:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyPrincess/pseuds/FantasyPrincess
Summary: How I imagine the immediate emotional states of both Angel and Demon immediately following their meeting in 1862, AD





	1862, AD - Later That Day

1862, AD

“Fraternizing? Fraternizing!” Crowley snapped his fingers and his coat and hat were on their hooks, his cane rigid and straight in its holster by the door.

Of course, Aziraphale would deny their friendship. The walls have ears, as well as the ducks and the swans and the stones and the bricks… well maybe not the bricks, but definitely the stones.

All the same, it did … hurt.  It’s not as if Crowley goes around yapping about their friendship, their … companionship. “Oh, Aziraphale, what am I going to do with you… Don’t expect me to miss-ssss…” He let out a hiss which stopped abruptly.

He slammed down into his chair, one leg akimbo, as he stared up at the ceiling, finally closing his eyes for a moment. It was his business why he wanted the holy water, and he’d thank the Angel to leave well enough alone. Or, at the very least, give him a little credit. How long had they known each other? It was crystal clear that they flat out enjoyed each other’s company, or at least it was clear to him. How could Aziraphale be so … so …

He stood up and sat down and stood up again, without rudder and direction. He stalked into his bedroom and flounced down on his bed; the black silk sheets cool against him.  He sighed and rubbed his eyes, letting out another hiss.

*

Aziraphale had been walking, briskly, obstinately, adamantly, for the last several hours. It had been daylight when he and Crowley had… quarreled, but now it was dusk.  And he was still walking.

He let out a huff as he careened passed by a tea shop and, quite suddenly, stopped, turned, and entered it. He ordered a chamomile tea, something with a bit of bite, but it was too hot to drink so he snapped his fingers to make it cool.

Oh, I don’t know why I let him bother me so much, Aziraphale thought to himself. He blinked hard, hiding his expression behind his tea cup, which was something Crowley taught him once. “You’ve got a face that gives you away, dear. Best hide it sometimes as you can,” and he’d handed him a newspaper.

Aziraphale gave a few clipped sighs into his tea, his lower lip pouting despite himself. A squat man who had brought him the tea asked if he was alright. He’d nodded, he thought. He wasn’t entirely sure. He as many hours there as he’d spent walking away from Crowley. Eventually, he paid for his time, and headed out the door, turning down an alley, he gave another snap and found himself turning into his bookshop.

*

Several weeks later, Crowley was still in bed, wallowing. He rather liked wallowing. It seemed to pass the time well. There was a tentative knock at his door which prompted him to get up. Throwing on a robe, he answered. It was a deliverymen, who looked at Crowley a bit sideways. “Package, sir. Sign?” Crowley did. “Thank you, sir.”

Crowley opened the brown paper box. It was a bottle of the finest single malt scotch, and a note. Just simply, “Sorry. Drink in good health. A” Crowley almost smashed it against the wall. Of course, he would, after he opened it. Perhaps after sniffing it. Suddenly he found himself pouring a glass and downing it, swearing he’d smash it after that first… Well, maybe it didn’t deserve a smashing after all. He brought it to bed with him, a small sad smile on his face.


End file.
